Of Sea Monsters and Paintball
by Llewellwyn Mephistopheles III
Summary: What begins as a friendly match of paintball for the Winchesters turns into something so much worse. As usual.


Sam and Dean had been sitting on the beach for hours. Endless hours of heat, bickering and a lack of food did not happy hunters make. It was a beautiful stretch of coast, sure, but their entire visit had not been one of beachfront relaxation. Instead they had spent their hours fruitlessly eyeballing the rolling waves in hopes of catching a glimpse of the 'sea monster' they were hunting. When Dean asked the time for the hundredth time in the same hour, Sam reached his breaking point. He stood and began to mosey down the beach, tired of listening to Dean's complaints and getting sand blown in his face by the incessant wind.

"Where're you going?" Dean demanded.

"To the swing," Sam replied.

The word 'swing' reached Dean's ears, immediately translated to 'way to not be bored'. He was up and running down the beach in a heartbeat. Despite the sand and his brother's head start, he quickly caught up with and passed Sam. An air of competition entered their journey and Sam took off after Dean. Having gigantor legs, Sam closed the distance between them. As he jogged alongside his brother, Dean stuck a foot out and Sam had a face full of sand before he realized what was happening. With a whoop of triumph, Dean reached the swing, grabbing the rope and clinging to it like it was the last hope of a dying man. Determined to have a bit of the fun for himself, Sam tackled Dean. The swing went flying, the rope ripped from Dean's fingertips. The brothers fell to the sandy beach, limbs flailing wildly.

Sam managed to subdue Dean for a moment and made a break for the swing. Dean's hand shot out like a striking snake, fingers seizing a handful of denim pant leg and halting Sam's progress. He crawled up the beach, the swing looming large in his vision. Sam wasted no time, he grabbed Dean's arm, wrenching him backward. The two tussled again, throwing halfhearted punches and flinging one another this way and that in hopes of waylaying the other long enough to reach the swing.

Slowly, the fight began to deteriorate, becoming increasingly focused on their own discomfort. A broken shard of shell jabbed Dean in the back. Sam was pretty sure he had a splinter in his finger. Dean knew he had rope burns from Sam's tackle and both brothers were covered in sand. It was everywhere—in their clothes, their eyes, their hair. In unspoken mutual agreement they abandoned their scuffle. Both knew it was going nowhere. They fell back onto the beach, breathing hard and trying to blink the grit from their eyes.

"Rock, paper, scissors?" Sam asked.

"No way, sasquatch!" Dean said. "My swing. I got here first."

"What?"

"Don't be a poor sport, Sammy. I'm the oldest, I got here first. It would upset the natural order of the world if you went first."

"Just shut up and do rock, paper, scissors."

"That game's loaded and you know it."

"What? We always settle everything with rock, paper, scissors."

"Yeah, and you always win. Cause you cheat."

"I don't."

"Whatever. I saw a paintball place a few miles back. We'll have ourselves an old fashioned standoff."

"Sure, Clint. Have you forgotten we're on a hunt?"

"The hunt can wait, Sam. It's been hour and we haven't even seen anything remotely resembling Nessie."

In the distance and unseen by the brothers, the water stirred. The sea monster lurked beneath the surface, watching and waiting with curious, beady eyes.

Still, Sam was unsure.

"You see something I haven't?" Dean demanded exasperatedly. "All I've seen in water and sand, which is currently still in my eye. Damn it!" He rubbed his eyes furiously and stood. Without waiting for his brother's inevitable resistance, he seized a fistful of Sam's jacket. "Come on, Samantha. We're going."

(***)

The drive to the range was short but tense. A flashing neon sign shouted 'Bobby Mackey's Paintball Emporium' from the roadside. They took the exit and soon found themselves before a ramshackle building on barren acreage. In the fields beyond the office, protective netting was strung up. Inside the netting planks of plywood, bales of hay and other large items were interspersed throughout the paintball field. Dean parked the Impala in the empty gravel lot. They exited the car simultaneously and were met halfway to the office building by a gangly, pimple-ridden Bobby Mackey III, as his nametag boldly proclaimed.

"Welcome to Bobby Mackey's Paintball Emporium," the teen began.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, effectively silencing him. "How much are we going to have to fork over to shoot each other for an hour?"

"Dean," Sam admonished. He turned a kind smile on the teenager, hoping to smooth over the sandpaper of his brother's mannerisms with his own 'puppy dog charm' as Dean often called it. Usually people relaxed, felt at ease and told them whatever they wanted to know. But Bobby Mackey III completely misinterpreted Sam's smile as one of proposition. He grinned crookedly at Sam, glancing up at him through his nonexistent lashes.

"Ten bucks for you," Mackey III cooed coquettishly to Sam. His expression drained to one of annoyance as he turned to Dean. "Twenty bucks for you, asshole."

Dean was having too much fun watching Sam squirm uncomfortably to be insulted by Mackey III's attitude. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and playfully elbowed Sam. "Don't mind me," he said.

Sam glared at him as they paid Bobby Mackey III led them into the office to give them some jumpsuits to protect their clothes and outfit them with guns. Mackey III unceremoniously shoved a jumpsuit into Dean's hands and promptly turned away. His eyes landed on Sam with barely concealed want. He held out the jumpsuit, grinning lewdly.

"Need some help, big boy?" he asked.

Turning a violent shade of red, Sam hurriedly declined the offer and snatched the jumpsuit. He joined Dean in the armory, landing a solid punch to his brother's arm. "Jerk," he hissed.

Dean could barely contain his rabid laughter long enough to gasp out 'Bitch' between hiccupping spasms of air. Fifteen minutes later, the brothers stood in the 'Battle Zone'.

"First one to hit the other fifteen times wins," Dean announced. He was grinning far too widely for Sam's comfort. He was like a kid on Christmas.

"I still don't see why rock, paper, scissors wouldn't work," Sam griped.

"On five…"

"Seriously?"

"One…"

"Dean."

"Two. Three..." Dean's grin got wider. "Four…"

Sam didn't wait for Dean to say 'five', knowing it would never come. He turned and ran full tilt to a bale of hay, ducking behind it. He flinched at the sound of two undoubtedly well placed paintballs exploding where he had stood not a second before. He hunkered behind his bale of hay, struggling to calm his ragged breathing and listen.

It had been a long time since either brother had been up against another highly skilled hunter. They knew one another like no other, and it made their challenge more difficult. For a time, silence stretched across the muddy yard. Both men were quiet and listening, using their senses as much as their minds as they tried to anticipate one another's moves.

Sam grinned despite the adrenaline in his system. It had been far too long since they'd had some honest fun. And it was fun to be facing one another in paintball, like playing cops and robbers as kids—the thrill of confrontation without the risk of injury or harm.

A hollow pop echoed through the air. His thigh stung like he'd been jabbed with a needle. Reflexively, he flinched and rubbed at it. He felt wetness and looked down. His fingers were covered in neon green paint.

Dean had hit him. He couldn't believe it for a moment.

"You better practice hiding those gigantor legs of yours, Sammy."

As if to prove his point, Dean fired two more shots. Sam hissed in pain as one struck his calf and another exploded against his shoulder. Sam darted left and hid behind a large shed, double checking to make sure he was fully hidden. Dean had hit him three times, but the game was just beginning. Slipping into hunter mode, Sam ducked from behind his sanctuary and began his offensive.

(***)

Dean looked down at the paint splatters on his white jumpsuit. The neon paint dribbled toward the ground in an amalgamation of garish colors. He counted nine hits. He knew he was about even with Sam, maybe up a point, he hoped. He wanted to be on that swing first, damn it. Peeking around the plywood concealing him, he took in the unsurprising lack of Sam. His first three shots had been lucky. Sam had been distracted, no doubt thinking about how they never do things like this or have honest fun. Sam always over thought things. But now that his brother had abandoned his over analysis in favor of some sport, they were tit for tat. For every time Dean shot his ginormous oaf of a brother, Sam always seemed to sneak a shot in for the equalizing point.

As Dean peeked around the plywood again, a paintball burst against his shoulder. He whipped behind his cover, only to have another strike him square in the chest. Another bit against the back of his calf as he darted away and found better cover. Sam was at 12 shots and too close to winning for Dean's comfort.

"Dean."

Dean spun and fired all in the same motion. It took a long moment for him to realize it was Cas standing beside him and not Sam. The angel's face was stoic as usual but Dean noted the neon paint and blood running down the side of his face with a touch of chagrin. The paintball had struck the angel in the forehead, leaving a red, paint covered welt.

"Shit, Cas. Sorry. I thought you were Sam."

The angel didn't seem to notice his wound. He peered at Dean as if just noticing the white jumpsuit and foreign weapon the hunter held. "Dean, what is happening?"

He shushed the angel and tugged him behind their hay bale cover. A pink paintball whizzed through the air Cas had occupied previously. Dean ducked around the hay bale and fired twice in return at the white blur he saw behind a barrel. He was rewarded with a muffled shout as the paintballs hit their mark. "Give up while you can, Sam. That swing is mine!"

"If you could count you'd know I'm ahead of you, Dean."

"Not for long."

"Dean," Castiel demanded. "What is going on here? What is this nonsense about paint and a swing?"

"Long story, Cas." Dean glanced around furtively. "Hey, why are you here, anyway?" A pink paintball exploded just to the left of Dean's hand and he quickly manhandled Cas behind another obstacle.

"I have information about the sea creature you are after."

"Nessie? Trust me, Cas, she ain't out there. We spent hours on that beach and didn't see a damn thing." He paused a moment and listened. "Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting wabbits." Dean left Cas and made a wide circle behind several of the hidey-holes on the course. He had a general idea where Sam was and didn't doubt that his brother still expected him to be hiding and on the defensive. It didn't take him long to ferret out his brother. Sam was crouched behind a wooden crate, his back to Dean. Dean padded forward on silent feet, already taking aim, finger tightening on the trigger. He fired.

Three paintballs struck Sam square in the back. Dean darted left and took cover. He heard the pops echo across the field as Sam returned fire.

"12-14 now. You're fighting a losing battle, Sammy."

"14-14," Sam's voice said. It was dangerously close. Dean dove to the ground and threw himself behind a wall. He felt the sting of two paintballs as they struck him. They each had 14 hits. They were even. The next hit decided everything.

"Dean." It was Cas again, he knew without looking.

"Not now, Cas. I'm busy."

"But Dean, the creature—"

"Cas, I told you. There isn't any damn monster. Sam and I have been…" He fired three shots, but didn't hit anything, "… looking all week. We got nothing."

Cas continued trying to make Dean understand, but he could see he was making no headway while the hunter was distracted by the stupid game he was involved in. With an inward sigh, he grabbed Dean's arm and forcibly transported him to the beach, stopping to grab Sam and the Impala on the way.

The brothers glanced around wildly, their irritated gaze landing on the angel as he stood beside them.

"Dude," Dean demanded. "What the hell?"

"You forced my hand with your uncooperative behavior."

"Cas, we were in the middle of something," Sam added.

"It can wait," the angel proclaimed.

"Really?" Dean asked.

"Yes."

"Who died and made you king?"

"I am not king. We have a problem."

"Yeah? What?"

Cas turned and the brothers followed his gaze to the water. They saw now what they had missed before—a towering, thirty foot tall sea monster rearing out of the churning waters and snatching people from the sandy beach at random. Its green scales flashed in the mid afternoon sun, beady eyes glinting. Sharp behemoths of teeth protruded from its snarling snout, skewering beach goers like they were the ingredients to a shish kebab.

"Holy shit," Dean deadpanned.

"This creature is not divine excrement, Dean," Cas explained tiredly. "It is a being from an ancient world and needs to be put to a stop."

"No shit, Shirlock."

"How many times must I say it? I am not Shirlock."

"Nevermind. How the hell do we kill Nessie? _Fucking Nessie!_" Dean glanced at Sam helplessly.

"Don't look at me," Sam shrugged. "I have no idea."

Abruptly the sea monster abandoned its frontal assault on the beach and turned its dark eyes on the Winchesters and Cas. With slithering, serpentine motions it scythed through the water and was standing before them seconds later. None of them had time to move. They stood and watched in awe as it reared up before them, snarling and growling with age old rage. In the backs of their minds, the brothers knew it was going to lunge at them. Everything tried to take a bite out of them sooner or later. When it made a pass, they were ready. They dove out of the way, hitting the sand hard and watching with barely concealed horror as the giant jaws smashed into the sand where they had stood. The monster reared up again and lunged forward, maw snapping. It caught sand, sticks, logs and anything else in its path as it chewed its way up the beach in a desperate search for Winchester flesh. As it snapped toward Sam, a tooth snagged on the swing, severing the rope as if it were nothing more than a limp spaghetti noodle. Dean swore and resisted the urge to punch it, knowing such an attack would be ineffectual. But he was pissed, damn it. He wanted to be the first one on that swing.

Without thinking it through, he grabbed his paintball gun from the sand beside him and fired at the monster. The neon paintballs shot from the gun with tiny pops, exploding on Nessie's skin in bright splatters. As Dean watched, the paint began to sizzle and smoke. The sea monster froze, swinging its massive head to stare at Dean. Dean stared back at it, hardly believing his eyes. The pain burned away at the monster like holy water did to demons. It writhed as it began to smoke more, a keening wail tearing its way up it throat and reverberating through the air. Dean set his jaw, knowing he'd have a splitting headache later from the racket. He raised the paintball gun and fired again. He hit the monster ten times. With each hit it twisted and slithered, trying to worm its way back into the water. Sam caught on and joined Dean. Together they fired at the sea creature until it was nothing more than a splotchy, smoking neon snake.

Suddenly, it froze. Its writhing stopped and the air became eerily still as it went quiet. With a final shiver, it collapsed onto the beach, dead.

(***)

Dean watched the rope swinging in the breeze. It was still tethered to a tree on one end, but the swing was long gone.

"Fucking sea monsters," Dean growled.

Sam shook his head, unzipping his jumpsuit and carefully easing his way out of it. "Forget the swing, Dean. I'm still trying to figure out why paintballs killed it."

Dean looked away from the decimated swing and shucked his jumpsuit. He just wanted to get back to the Impala. He'd had enough of sea monsters allergic to paint and being denied his swing dreams. He grinned at Sam. "I totally would've won that match," he said.

Sam looked up sharply. "What? That's such crap!"

"Is not and you know it. We both know I'm way better at paintball than you."

"It was 14-14, Dean."

"Yeah, and it would have been 15-14 with me winning and rubbing it in your bitchface if it wasn't for the angelic intervention that saved your ass."

"Whatever, jerk."

"Bitch."

As they walked away, Sam continued to pout. "We're so having a rematch."

"Bring it, Samantha."


End file.
